Rite of Blood
by EbonyShroud
Summary: When strange incidences occur when people venture into an old pie shop, a priest is called in to investigate. However, the priest soon learns that the hungry spirit lurking in the shop still lusts for revenge against the world and its inhabitants.
1. Arrival of Fleet Street

It was a chilly day in London, the remains of an autumn storm still lingering in the air as the civilians of London stomped through puddles to their destination. While the people on the streets cursed the weather, those in cars ignored their murky damp surroundings as they rushed to their next locations.

"Is this the street you're meeting the person, Father?" The driver asked as he peered down the street, his fingers dancing nervously on the worn steering wheel. The priest grumbled in annoyance as he looked for a street sign. He found the sign, an old copper sign that read Fleet Street.

"This is the street. Thank you for bringing me here, Roger," The priest said as he opened the door and stepped out. He scowled as he stepped into a large puddle, drenching his feet and ankles in cold water. He roughly shook one of his legs in hopes of draining the water from his shoe, but it only made his feet colder. He gave up on the idea and ducked down to the open window of the car.

"It's no problem, Father. It's always a pleasure to help you. You have my number, right? Call me when the meeting's done with and I'll come straight away to pick you up. Good luck, Father," The driver yelled. The priest smiled and waved good-bye as the car drove off, leaving him on the sidewalk. After watching the car hurtle down the windy avenue and vanish around a corner, he turned and started walking down the road. His smile vanished as he observed his surroundings, old buildings revamped by naive owners hoping to join in on the grand nightlife of London. He saw pubs, restaurants, clubs, and stores all along both sides of the street. Rutherford disliked those sorts of buildings with their loud music, bright neon lights, and large suggestive advertisements. Such buildings often enticed people to follow their carnal desires, rather than their reasoning and conscience. He quickly shifted away from his thoughts about the materialistic buildings and thought about the call that had been made two days earlier. The secretary of a wealthy businessman had arrived at the church, begging to meet the priest. When he had met the nervous man, the man had asked that he meet with his employer at Fleet Street.

He stared around at the street, looking for the supposed man he was supposed to meet. The street was near empty, minus a hungry stray cat searching for rodents in the nearby gutter. Suddenly, he noticed a man standing near the end of the street, slowly puffing on a cigarette as he glanced around. Once he noticed the priest, he quickly put out the cigarette's flame and smiled, a cold business-like smile.

"Father Rutherford?" The man called out as he walked towards him.

"That would be me, yes," The priest replied as he glared at the man before him. For a man of supposed wealth, he dressed like any ordinary person. He wore a faded brown suit with a dark green tie and a light yellow stain on a near unblemished white shirt. Despite the smile, he looked as a man who had gone many years without a respite from hard work. His face was prematurely lined with thin wrinkles and Rutherford could see faint gray roots in his yellow hair.

"Thank God. I'm truly glad you came to help. I was worried you wouldn't come, seeing as my secretary is sometimes unreliable. I trust you can solve this issue, I wish to convert this location into a pub or restaurant. God knows this filthy excuse of a building needs a refreshing change," The man said as he checked his watch. Rutherford felt a thrum of disapproval towards the man, recognizing him as another hopeful businessman edging into the nightlife of London.

"What exactly is the problem, Mr. York?" The priest asked questioningly. The smile on the man's face slipped away momentarily and was replaced with one of mixed worry and annoyance.

"Perhaps this conversation could be held inside. It's bad enough that the whole bloody street's superstitious; I wouldn't want to attract any more unwanted attention. Come in," Mr. York said as he turned to walk away. Rutherford followed the man and found himself in front of two story old-fashioned brick store building, its wide grimy windows covered with thin gray curtains and faded gold letterings in the aged wood reading **Mrs.…Pie Emporium**. The man opened the door and gestured for the priest to enter. Father Rutherford nodded at the gesture and was appalled at the stench that reached his nose the minute he stepped across the threshold. The odor was unlike anything he had ever smelled before, a retched mixture of heavy musty reek of mildew and decaying flesh.

"I do apologize for the smell, whatever it is. It seems to be coming from the basement. No matter how hard we scrub and sanitize, the stench never goes away. As for now, we can only assume that it's the sewer. Please, sit down," Mr. York with a wave of his hands. The priest sat down at a small table, Mr. York taking the seat opposite of them.

"Father, quite frankly this whole meeting and request is probably just some superstitious folly that was concocted by the quibbling gullible neighbors and nervous business-competitors. However, if I ever want this neighborhood to accept my business, I have to follow through their request," He said in annoyance.

"What could bother a businessmen like you? I am afraid I am confused," Father Rutherford asked.

"This disgusting excuse for a building is supposedly haunted by its previous owners, a duo of unsavory charlatans that performed some very vile deeds while they were alive. It was many years ago, but still the superstitions abound about their deeds and such," The man said, rolling his eyes.

"Are you saying you called me here for a exorcism?" Father Rutherford asked incredulously. He had never heard of anyone asking for an exorcism during his life, with the decline in demonic possessions and the sharp rise in science and lawsuits.

"Yes, unfortunately. I've already lost many workers to this supposed duo. Those that are not injured pretend to be sick and avoid coming to work. It's almost fascinating; the strange things that happen once someone enter the loft. I've seen workers go insane, attack their fellow partners, gorge their eyes out with their tools, and commit suicide days later. It's ridiculous," Mr. York replied as he pulled out another cigarette and lit it. Father Rutherford grimaced, an expression that the businessman noticed. He shrugged apologetically before snuffing out the cigarette.

"I can see what you are talking about. Have these incidents only been occurring in the room above?" Father Rutherford asked quietly, glancing upwards towards the ceiling.

"Most of the incidents occur in the upper room, although several accidents have occurred in the basement. I promised my workers that a priest would expel the 'ghost' and assure that no harm would befall them should they return to work," Mr. York replied, a thin smile stretched across his face.

"Do you even know what you are asking for, Mr. York?" The priest asked.

"Yes, I do. I ask for a simple exorcism, Father. I am not a religious man, if anything I am a shrewd follower of science and reason. However, my workers are very gullible. If I am to follow my plans for the renovations, I must have this done. Rest assured, once this is illogical mess is over with, I will donate a good sum of money to your church," Mr. York stated, his smile twisting to a self-satisfied smirk. Father Rutherford debated the issue before deciding it wouldn't hurt to check the upstairs room. Even if the man asked for an exorcism without knowing what it entailed or truly believing in it, it would be wrong not to investigate and ease the fears of the workers that had to work for the man.

"How am I to get to the upper part of the store?" He asked. The man's smirk widened as he stood up.

"Outside the building, there is a staircase that you can use. It's old, but is well preserved for such an old structure. Come, I'll show it to you," He said. Father Rutherford followed the man out and was greeted with the sight of a ragged pair of children standing on the curb, a boy and girl. Their clothes were soiled from muddy water and food stains and their faces were emotionless as they stared up at them. Father Rutherford stared at the children, astonished that their parents allowed them to be in such a state. Mr. York, however, had no sympathy for the children.

"Go on, get out of here! I told you two not to loiter around here," Mr. York growled at the children before walking around the corner. As Father Rutherford passed them, the children turned their cold stares onto him. Their faces darkened as they watched him pass by. He broke eye contact with the children in order to meet up with the businessman. Mr. York stood by a rickety old staircase, which looked barely strong enough to withstand any wind that chanced to pass by, let alone the weight of a single person.

"I apologize, Father, but I do have to stay down here. My secretary is due back any moment and I cannot have him run off again and find someplace unsavory to stick his long nose into," Mr. York said, vanishing back into the building before Father Rutherford could protest. He sighed in annoyance before he started up the stairs. The steps creaked and wobbled, but managed to hold his weight.

"Sweeney Todd waits for you, Father," A cold shiver crept over Father Rutherford as he heard the soft cold words. He looked around and saw the two children staring up at him from the street. They had moved away from the curb in front of the store in order to see him clearly.

"I don't think you two should linger here any longer, you could get in trouble," He called out. The boy remained emotionless, but a faint smile came to the girl's face and she giggled. He glanced around and noticed the door to the supposed cursed room.

"_Attend the tale of Sweeney Todd, his skin was pale and his eye was odd,_" The two children began singing, their voices syncing to create a dark threatening hum. He smiled, the children were most likely waiting to see him perform some sort of mystical rite and dispel the supposed spirit.

"…_He shaved the faces of gentlemen who never thereafter were heard of again," _He tried to ignore their song as he tried to door. To his surprise, the wooden door swung into the room without protest. He took a glance inside, noticing that it was much darker in the room than he had expected, and he walked into the room.

"…_The demon barber of Fleet Street_," He heard the children sing just before the door slammed behind him.


	2. Cold Welcome

Father Rutherford jumped in surprise and turned around to face the door. He glared at the door, eyes trailing over its rain-warped frame, the pale paint peeling away and revealing the worn wood beneath it, and the layer of grime on the door's window that obscured the outside. He smiled grimly, feeling foolish for jumping at the sound of the door closing. For a moment he was glad that Mr. York hadn't come up with him, he wouldn't want the man to see his surprise and make some sort of comment about it. He turned away from the door to examine his surroundings. As his eyes eyes adjusted to the murky gloom, he noticed that he had entered a large open room. A large window dominated the the far sloped wall, the grime from years of settling and lack of cleaning keeping light from entering the room. The thin form of a tall electric light stood near the far corner, revealing the light that the workers had used before the strange incidents had occured. Father Rutherford slowly walked across the room to the window, making sure that there were no abandoned tools or other assorted items upon which to trip over. With each step he took, the wood beneath his feet creaked and groaned beneath his feet. Once he reached the window, he reached out and gently touched the window. He brushed his fingers across the window, a thin layer of grime collecting beneath his fingers , before pulling out a handkercheif he had created when he helped with a youth meeting at his church. He pressed it against the window and rubbed for a moment. When he pulled it away, a faint ray of light managed to get past the filth layered on the outside of the window. Father Rutherford smiled to himself as he stared at the feeble ray.

"Welcome, sir," A voice suddenly called out. For a second time that day, Father Rutherford jumped in surprise and turned to the voice. To Father Rutherford's surprise, a tall man stood by the door. The man's face wore an expression of cold calm with a dark wary smile. His thick black hair, an white streak contrasting with the rest of his hair, made his face appear paler than normal. He wore a white shirt with a dark brown vest and dark pants, the clean and practical design of the clothes creating a strange contrast between him and his filthy abandoned surroundings.

"Who are you?" Father Rutherford asked in astonishment, glancing at the only door in the room before focusing on the strange man again. He hadn't heard the man enter the room without the floor creaking with his steps or the door opening and shutting.

"The name's Sweeney Todd, sir. Perhap's you wish for a shave?" Sweeney asked, glancing towards the center of the room before focusing again on Father Rutherford.

"No thank you, I do not need a shave. What are you doing here, Mr. Todd?" Father Rutherford asked. The strange man's stare was beginning to unnerve him, the cold examination of his face and outfit and the lack of warmth and feeling in Sweeney's questioning eyes.

"I am a barber here, sir. In all truths, I should ask be asking about why _you_ are here, if not for my assistance?" Sweeney replied, the dark smile twisting in faint curiosity.

"Do you work for Mr. York, Mr. Todd?" Father Rutherford asked instead of responding to the man's question. Sweeney's eyes flashed in anger and his smile soured into a disdainful frown before he turned away from Father Rutherford and walked towards a grimy window on the adject wall. Father Rutherford watched him walk across the room, noticing that the floor did not creak and groan beneath Sweeney's feet as it had when he had walked over it.

"I worked with my previous business partner, sir. She worked here many years ago, running her pie shop down below. I do not work underneath that man," Sweeney replied, his voice shaking with the force of his barely-contained anger.

"Then what are you doing here? I do not think Mr. York would appreciate you being here without his permisson," Father Rutherford asked in confusion.

"This place is mine, it always has been. I don't need permission from any man to be here. Your friend Mr. York and all those businessmen that had come here before him can pretend that they own this building, waving their flimsy sheafs of paper and all that foolish ruckus. All the better," The man said before turning back to Father Rutherford. The priest thought about the man's word and began piecing together the situation. The man was an imprint or a ghost, which explained how he had arrived and walked across the old wooden floor without making a single noise. For some reason, he had not moved on to be judged before God and remained rooted in his old business and home.

"I am a priest, Mr. Todd. I came here because there were several reported disturbances..." Father Rutherford started to say, taking a step towards Sweeney before the man turned away from the window and faced him again. The frown on the man's face had slipped away and left his face impassive.

"Yes, I know about those disturbances. I don't need someone like you to tell me about them. However, I am surprised, truly. The new hopeful owner didn't seem like the type to call upon a priest like you for help, with his attitude towards the nervous neighbors that now lived on this street and his beliefs on supposed superstition. Must be fear of their disapproval that drove him to ask for assistance from someone like you," Sweeney said, a faint lilt of amusement in his voice.

"What are you talking about?" Father Rutherford asked, bristling with anger and fear at the way the man spoke about him. The dark smile came to Sweeney's face again and he began walking towards him. Father Rutherford felt fear burn at the back of his mind, its weak terrified voice begging to escape before it was too late. He quieted the small frightened voice with a mental recitation of a prayer, his faith in God wiping away the terror. He watched as the man drew close, stopping just beside him. Sweeney leaned close to Father Rutherford's ear.

"They all deserve to die," Sweeney whispered, his soft voice cold and sharp. A strange cold sensation enveloped Father Rutherford as Sweeney brushed past him. Father Rutherford turned, the small terrified voice returning to shriek not to face the man, to see that Sweeney was kneeling on the floor half a meter away from him. He plucked a small worn plank of wood and pulled out a small dark box. His fingers gently brushed against the box, although it didn't wipe away the layer of dust covering it.

"So, it was you who tormented those men," Father Rutherford asked.

"Torment, sir? That's a rather strange way of putting it. I am only completing my work, my unfinished task. However, I am quite sure my former business-partner downstairs dislikes having intruders bumble through her store and tumble into the basement where she bakes her pies. Do not blame me for those who venture into her domain in the basement," Sweeney replied coldly as he gently lifted the box's thin case. Father Rutherford stared as several sparkling old-fashioned razors were revealed, the feeble ray of light from the window illuminating the silver blades. Sweeney touched the blades, thin fingers trailing across the silver surface.

"_These are my friends, see how they glisten, see how they shine in the light_," Sweeney quietly sang to himself, a faint weak smile appearing on his lips. He tried picking up one of the razors, his fingers curled gently beneath the silver handle. However, his fingers passed through the blades, leaving him empty-handed.

"And what is your unfinished task, Mr. Todd?" Father Rutherford asked nervously.

"Mr. York didn't inform you of the tale? I suppose not, he doesn't believe in anything that can go unproven," Sweeney said as he looked up and glared at Father Rutherford. He couldn't mistake the anger in the ghost's lightless eyes, the dark malice that suddenly appeared in his thin twisted smile, and how his fingers trailed over the blades again.

"What about those damn children that always lurk outside the pie shop, singing and watching? They know what we did when we were alive, why we are here. Can you guess, sir, hm?" Sweeney growled, frowning as he mentioned children.

"._..He shaved the faces of gentlemen who never thereafter were heard of again...The demon barber of Fleet Street_," The children's morbid song suddenly came back to Father Rutherford. They had even mentioned earlier about the man's name, Sweeney Todd, when they had spoken to him. However, he hadn't made the connection as he should have done. He had instead ignored the children and their quiet song, thinking instead on Mr. York's words. His expression of realization must have managed to escape him, for Sweeney smiled again.

"_Not one man, no nor ten men, nor a hundred can assuage me_," Sweeney sang, his voice quiet and thick with anger and grief. His fingers curled again into a tight fist as he set the small box on the floor.

"Why are you remaining behind, Mr. Todd?" Father Rutherford asked.

"_We all deserve to die_," Sweeney continued. A wave of chilled air billowed over Father Rutherford, the sudden breeze smarting the priest's eyes. He couldn't resist holding a hand to his eyes to keep the cold air from hurting his eyes. The breeze vanished as quickly as it came, allowing Father Rutherford to warily lower his hand. He looked up to see that Sweeney had vanished.

"Mr. Todd?" Father Rutherford asked, looking around the room to see where he had vanished to. The large window behind Father Rutherford rattled softly, as if in response to the ghost's anger.

"_Even you_,"


	3. Into the Darkness

Father Rutherford glanced around the room, trying to avoid glancing at the shaking window. The vibrations of the glass unnerved him enough, staring at it would only shatter his feeble self-control.

"Mr. Todd, I won't be frightened by this," Father Rutherford stated, although his own confidence didn't back his words.

"Who says that I am planning to scare you away?" Sweeney's voice called out behind him. Father Rutherford gritted his teeth as he turned around. The abandoned blades were still in their former location.

"In the name of God, stop this at once!" Father Rutherford shouted. For a moment, it seemed to work. The window stopped rattling and left the small room quiet. A quick flash of relief washed over Father Rutherford, at least for a moment. The quiet was quickly disturbed by the soft humming of vibrating metal.

"Welcome to the grave,"

* * *

Mr. York puffed on his smoldering cigarette as he sat at the small table, a copy of the local newspaper sprawled on the table with a bright picture and a comment about another squabble at one of the local tourist venues. He glanced out the window and scowled, his assistant was late once again. Most likely, he got sidetracked several blocks away and was attempting to use his defunct GPS in hopes that it would actually show him the correct path to the shop. The assistant wouldn't believe the truth about the GPS, that it didn't even work properly when he had bought it three months earlier. Mr. York pulled out his cell-phone and dialed the assistant's number. He waited for a few moments before he reached the man's answering machine.

"Vincent, since you are not here I am to assume you are lost once again. Use the instructions I had put into the glove compartment and get your ass here now, before I decide to cut your paycheck once again," He snapped before canceling the call. He shoved the cell-phone back into the pocket of his suit, only for it to start buzzing.

"Damn," He growled as he fished the phone out again. He opened it to see that his assistant had replied to his call with a text message. A faint scowl came to his face as he opened the text message.

**Srry, traffics rlly bad. B there soon.** Mr. York read, his scowl deepening once he finished reading the fragmented sentences. The only thing that ticked him off more than superstition was the cell-phone lingo that the youth of this age had developed. Some people called the strange form of writing chat-speak; he called it an insult to modern languages. They didn't go through school only to mock their parents and teachers with this pathetic excuse for writing. He deleted the message and shoved the phone back into his pocket, his thoughts already trailing away from his lazy assistant and thinking instead about the refurbishments he had planned for the building. For a moment, he thought he heard a loud thump from the loft above and his thoughts turned to the priest he had sent up there. However, he quickly dismissed the thump as some sort of ritual needed for exorcisms.

"_Sweeney wishes the world away, Sweeney's weeping for yesterday,_" The soft voices outside snapped the final nerve. He stood up and stormed towards the door, flinging the door open and searching for the source of the two voices. The two children were playing in the road with a mucky rubber ball, ignoring Mr. York's sudden appearance at the shop's entrance.

"_No one can help, nothing can hide you..._"

"I told you two to get out of here! Go home, you little brats! Scat, shoo, find some other person to annoy!" He yelled out at them, interrupting their song. The girl ignored him, passing the ball towards her brother. The other child glanced at him and and a tiny smile crossed over his face before he caught the bouncing ball and tossed it back to his sister.

"They won't leave," Mr. York jumped at the new female voice behind him. He glanced back to see a woman standing at a nearby window, glaring at the children through the grimy window. Her long tangled hair hid her face from view, but he could hear the resentment and anger in her voice.

"Who are you?" Mr. York said, his voice shaking despite himself. He hated having people sneak up on him and with good reason.

"They are too persistent, just like Toby was when he was still here. They think they are doing the city a favor, scaring away customers with their songs. They even look like him, they have his nose and eyes," The woman growled.

"You must leave,"

"You're a strange man, Mr. York. Strange, strange," She muttered as she glanced at him, dark eyes glimmering with amusement and annoyance.

"Madam I won't…"

"Mrs. Lovett, that's my name. _Madam_, that title makes me sound like I run a whore-house instead of a pie shop," She snapped, the amusement in her eyes vanishing in favor of anger before walking towards the back of the store. She stepped behind the aged wooden counters and ducked out of view, mumbling under her breath.

"Mrs. Lovett, is it? I'm sorry, but unless I am incorrect, today is October twelfth, not April first," Mr. York stated as he took another breath from his smoldering cigarette. The smoke-filled breath cooled his startled nerves, allowing him to return to his calm composure.

"What, you think I'm some sort of trespasser? You're a fool, a smart businessman but still a naïve fool. Now, where'd you put my rags? I need to clean this counter off and make some pies. Maybe you would like one?" She asked as she stood back up and slammed her palms on the counter.

"Pies, you cannot make pies here. Who's the fool, the businessman who knows that ghosts and their like don't exist in this world or the trespassing woman who pretends that she is a ghost and that she can bake pies without supplies?" He called out as he walked towards her.

"We just got some supplies, Mr. York. I'm not ignorant as you are," She said quietly. Mr. York allowed himself to smile back at the obviously stupid woman, a mocking smile that was usually reserved for his assistant and annoying workers. However, unlike the men that usually squirmed beneath his stare and smile, the woman seemed pleased with his reaction.

"Would you like a little priest, perhaps?" She asked, a faint dark smile gracing her face as she stared at him.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Mr. York said, unable to keep his voice from shaking with fear. Her mentioning of priest reminded him of the priest that was spending far too long in the upper room. Something was wrong or going to become wrong very soon.

"We have meat, fresh, go ahead and see for yourself," She said, gesturing towards the door that led into the basement. Mr. York glared at the woman before he walked towards the door. He stared at the door, unsure with the idea of going into the basement with the words of the trespassing woman pretending to be the ghost of the former owner.

"Nothing's going to harm you, I promise," She whispered as she brushed past him to open the door. The arm she had touched tingled, goosebumps rising to the surface at the cold touch. She gently opened the door, revealing a staircase leading into the basement. The foul smell that originated from the basement struck him with full force, the wretched smell making his eyes water. It took all of his willpower not to cover his nose.

"Don't you trust me, Mr. York?" She asked slyly, leaning against the wall with the smile still on her face.

"Hell no," He retorted. A faint chuckle escaped her as she walked past him and down the stairs. Mr. York stared at the door, debating about locking the door and calling for help, before deciding it would be best to simply see what the strange woman was talking about. He cautiously followed the woman down the stairs, trying his best to ignore the smell and increased amount of filth. She waited for him at the bottom of the steps, dark eyes watching him curiously.

"Strange, I don't see any of these so-called supplies," He said, glancing around the room. The gloom hid the room's features. the woman continued to smile as she glanced at a light that had been left behind by frightened workers. The bulb flickered to life, allowing the gloom to reveal its secrets. The secrets were not much, besides a large smoky metal furnace that was once used to bake pies and a small grate that led to the sewer. Nothing revealing or shocking, just another empty abandoned room.

"Nice trick, break in and scare away people often?" Mr. York asked, glancing at the light suspiciously. The smile on her face slipped away and she glared at him with cool disdain. Then, a loud bang startled Mr. York, who spun around to search for the source of the noise. He looked around n confusion before something fell with a sickening thump onto the stone floor.

"Oh, shit..." He whispered to himself as he recognized Father Rutherford. Light blue eyes stared out in eternal surprise as the deep laceration on his bare throat continued to ooze thick clotting blood. Mr. York sank to his feet, eyes glued to the corpse as he tried to think past his shock at seeing a dead priest.

"Now, whatever shall we do with _you_?" Mrs. Lovett stated coolly.


	4. Demons of the Past

Mr. York used what little willpower left in his trembling muscles to turn and face the woman ghost. While he couldn't get to his feet, his legs had lost their will to stand; he could very least face the threat before him. Mrs. Lovett stared down at him, her thin arms crossed across her chest and eyes narrowed as she pondered what her next move should be.

"Please, don't…" Mr. York started.

"Don't kill you, is that what you are trying to say? Why not? It's a perfectly good option," Mrs. Lovett stated coldly.

"I've done nothing wrong. Nothing, I swear. It wouldn't be fair," Mr. York continued. Mrs. Lovett smiled at his words, a thin mocking grin quite similar to his own favorite smirk.

"Fair, Mr. York? _It's not fair?_" Another voice broke in, cold and disdainful. Mrs. Lovett glanced towards the source of the noise, biting her lip as if she herself was worried. Mr. York felt what little hope had come from the new voice shattered as a man came into view. The man's chilled dark eyes did not betray any form of mercy or kindness, only cold anger.

"Since when did fair become a part of life? It wasn't fair what happened to me, to Lucy, to my daughter. Fairness is a sugar-coated word designed for worms like you who use it to pretend that they have the right to mock the world and trample on those who happen to be in the way," The man hissed, his voice rattling with his own uncontrollable hatred. Mr. York felt compelled to answer the man, as if he could reach the other ghost's heart through a few well-chosen words. However, his mind remained blank from over-powering terror and his voice silent.

"Hello, Mr. Todd," The woman said, her voice quieted by her own attempt to remain calm at the appearance of the new arrival. Mr. York felt the panic slip away for a moment as he recognized the name. It took a few seconds for him to remember where he heard of the name. The name was in the children's song, their quiet morbid song. Once he remembered, the horror and panic quickly returned in full force.

"I'm surprised you allowed this pathetic worm to live so long. Usually they only last a few days before you either drive them off or kill them," Mr. Todd growled, turning to face the woman. Mrs. Lovett didn't flinch when his cold stare focused on her, although her shoulders stiffened with nervousness and her hands clenched momentarily. The woman's reaction to the other ghost's words panicked Mr. York for a moment. He attempted to stand up, but once again his legs and arms ignored his frantic attempts and only shook with the force of his new panic and fear.

"There may still be a use for this wretch," She said quietly, glancing at Mr. York before she looked back to Mr. Todd.

"Is there now?" Mr. Todd replied, the cold in his voice evaporating to faint amusement at her comment. He glanced away and walked towards Mr. York. Once again, Mr. York tried to get to his feet to escape, only to have it end in failure. Mr. Todd stopped within kicking distance of Mr. York, staring down at the quivering frightened businessman with amusement.

"I doubt he would be of any use, not even useful for a decent pie, Mrs. Lovett. The priest, at least, would not sour the stomach as this one most surely would," He called out mockingly as he stared down at Mr. York.

"We can make him restart our business," She replied, true glee illuminating her eyes at her own idea. Mr. Todd's expression froze for a moment before being replaced with thoughtful amusement.

"No, no way in hell," Mr. York stammered, feeling slightly pleased at himself for being able to regain control over his voice. However, that control managed to slip away when the man knelt down to have his eyes level with Mr. York's.

"And what do you know about hell, Mr. York?" Mr. Todd hissed, anger returning to his voice. Even Mrs. Lovett's glee vanished when Mr. York mentioned hell, a threatening scowl plastered on her face.

"I-I won't," Mr. York said.

"Will you now? Then why don't we just slit your throat and be done with this whole matter?" Mr. Todd hissed, the twisted smile coming back to his lips. Mr. Todd chuckled as Mr. York's horror managed to betray itself on his face.

"Mr. York, we'll say it simply so that you can understand. Restore our businesses to its former glory and we'll spare your life as long as you help us," Mrs. Lovett said as she walked over, standing by Mr. Todd's shoulder.

"So you can kill more people?" Mr. York stammered.

"Many will die, regardless of what will happen," Mrs. Lovett said.

"The blood is on your hands, no matter if you survive or not. We kill, but you would bring them to slaughter. You die, more businessmen and workers under the blade. You live, still more supposedly innocent lives cast down. Even if you left without fulfilling the promise, the blood would stain your soul," Mr. Todd continued. Sharp disgust and the sudden urge to vomit nearly overwhelmed Mr. York, but somehow he withheld the urge. Even if he couldn't get up and escape, he could find the will to avoid vomiting.

"My hands are clean," Mr. York said.

"So you think, Mr. York. How many workers have died because you made them come?" Mrs. Lovett asked mockingly. Without his own consent, the number popped to the fore of his jumbled thoughts. The familiar bitter taste came up again and he no longer had the willpower to stop himself. The two ghosts watched in amusement as his stomach rebelled against his will and vomited up a disgusting mixture of acid and half-digested food. It splattered down the front of his suit and onto the floor. Smarting tears slipped past his face at the force of the upheaval.

"Think about all those dead men. They're dead because of you. It's your fault," Mrs. Lovett said.

"No," Mr. York mumbled.

"You can keep telling yourself that, Mr. York. Maybe after a couple of feeble no's, you can convince yourself that there is no blood on your stained hands. I doubt that delusion would last very long," Mrs. Lovett continued, voice laced with dark amusement.

"No, please no," He mumbled again.

"What is your decision?" Mrs. Lovett shouted, annoyance and anger biting at her voice as she spoke. Mr. York stared at them, the amusement at his terror and disgust and the cold remorseless disdain towards him. Beneath the terror, he could feel the despair and defeat slipping in. He quietly nodded, unable to speak.

"Now, let's see if you can uphold your promise," Mr. Todd growled before he left, vanishing into the glom as quickly as he came. The woman's smile brightened before she turned and walked towards the furnace. She stood in front of the furnace, resting her hand on the metal surface as she began humming quietly to herself. With the departure of Mr. Todd, Mr. York felt the numbness in his muscles vanish. The muscles protested as he tried standing up, but he managed to get to his feet. The urge to vomit overwhelmed him once again and nearly knocked him down to the ground again, although all that came up was clear bitter acid. Once he had finished vomiting, he stumbled towards the stairs with the help of the basement wall.

"Good bye, Mr. York. Remember our bargain," Mrs. Lovett called, glancing at him over her shoulder. Mr. York stared at her and her bright happy smile before the terror resurfaced and decided that it was not good to be there anymore. He turned away and stumbled up the stairs. His feet continued to falter beneath him, but the wall kept him standing until he regained what little strength he had. Once he reached the top of the stairs, he fumbled for the door handle before he managed to get a good grip on the handle. He pushed against the door and left the ghost alone in the basement.

* * *

The two children stared at him as he stumbled out of the building and sat down on the curb, their ball bouncing away from them and into the nearby gutter. He glared up at them before deciding it wasn't worth the effort to tell them to leave. He continued to stare out blankly at the opposite curb, at least until he felt warmth around him. He wrested his mind away from his thoughts to notice that the children were sitting down next to him and leaning against him, the girl on his right and the boy on his left. Their thin arms curled around him, as if to offer him some form of support or comfort. They didn't seem to mind the smell of vomit and blood, or at least didn't show that it bothered them.

"Go away," He growled angrily, feeling more ashamed that the children felt pity for him. As they always did, they ignored his words. They leaned their heads against him and hummed to themselves, the same song they always sang whenever they were around people. Mr. York wanted to yell at them, to scare them away and leave him in his anguish and shame. He tried to will his hoarse voice to tell them to leave him, but once again he couldn't. He allowed the children to sit next to him and share their warmth, at least until his assistant finally arrived. Once the car started trawling up the road towards him, they pulled their arms away and gently took his hands into their own small hands to offer him their support.

"Mr. York, what happened?" The assistant said as he came out of the car and walked towards them, blatant concern on his face as he noticed the suit stained by vomit and the haunted look on Mr. York's face. Mr. York stared up at the man before words managed to come out.

"Someone broke in and killed the priest," Mr. York said quietly.

"What? That can't be. Where is the body, I should go check and make sure..." The assistant said in surprise, stepping past Mr. York to head into the old pie shop to investigate.

"Don't go in there," Mr. York growled, stopping the assistant in his tracks. The man glanced down at his employer in confusion.

"You're right, the intruder might be inside. Oh god, we need to call someone quickly before he gets away," The assistant said before he pulled out his cell-phone and began dialing for emergency services.

"_Attend the tale of Sweeney Todd, he served a dark and a hungry God_," The two children quietly sang. They stopped singing for a moment when the assistant glared at them while the phone rang.

"Hello? Yes, I want to report a…" Mr. York heard the assistant say, but he soon stopped listening to the man's words. It didn't matter, it didn't matter what happened anymore. He was stuck, helping the duo for the single hope of living another day.

"_To seek revenge may lead to hell, but everyone does it if seldom as well. As Sweeney, as Sweeney Todd_," The two children continued, ignoring a second glance from the assistant. The assistant moved away from the children as he continued talking to the emergency operator, as if the children were distracting him from talking.

"_The demon barber of Fleet Street_," Mr. York finished, feeling the weight of the words roll across his tongue when he sang it. The children giggled to themselves before they squeezed his hand and did the one thing he could never get them to do. They left him standing on the curb, walking hand in hand and humming quietly to themselves. He watched them walk away down the street and vanish around the corner, leaving him alone in front of the old pie shop.

* * *

**Thank you so much for reading my story. There was an epilogue to this story, but it was scratched because it did not fit well with the rest of the story.**


End file.
